


Untitled Frankokratia Weird Althistory Scrapped Fic Scrap #413-612-690

by MercuriallyApathetic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:13:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23522107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuriallyApathetic/pseuds/MercuriallyApathetic
Summary: I was reminded of this and was told to post it.





	Untitled Frankokratia Weird Althistory Scrapped Fic Scrap #413-612-690

John Egbert travels along the countryside road, a young man sitting inside a painted carriage pulled by white-haired horses trotting along the forest roads. He wears a tunic of three shades of brown, held by a black belt with a buckle that shines in the noonday sun. Sitting across him is the Margrave of Lowinade, a sliver of wind-battered land to the north. He is also John's father, a man garbed in identical fashion to his son, save sleeves of chain mail visible as small bands between skin and fabric, and sheathed razors hanging from his belt.

"Everyone's there?" John asks.

"And you should make an effort to meet them all, John." his father says. "You're but a squire now, but one day you'll walk among them as equals. Best to start now, right?"

"Right."

A journey from Lowinade to the mainland is typically a voyage across the Hospitable Sea that sails down the eastern shores until reaching Terminus. Unfortunately, the margrave has been summoned to Trapezium, an oddly constructed castle whose construction may or may not have involved alcohol and bad life choices.

The emperor of Astraea* had asked him to attend, both as friend and advisor, though on what he wrote mostly dramatic phrases like _new world order_ and _reclaim what was lost_ and so on and so forth.

John looks outside the carriage window. This wasn't his first time outside his father's— no, one day they'd be his— lands, but all the same he was curious; supposedly trolls far outnumbered humans almost everywhere else. And he had nothing else to do, really. Books wouldn't be mass produced for some time, and phones still further off into the temporal distance.

He runs his hand through his hair again. The constant winds of his home had ensured his hair would never sit idly. He still looked young partly due to the hair, but he wasn't quite ready to cut it yet. He had a hard deadline of when he became margrave, but that was like, decades, right?

He'd be eased into the role, but it wasn't like he'd lose his father this early in the story for a stock tragic background, no sir. He could save cutting it for a later time, to symbolize his newfound maturity or some nonsense like that.

And right on cue, a hiss gave way to a scream as the driver tumbls off the carriage and down the hill, arrowhead in his temple barely noticeable after a few seconds.

A few seconds more after that, a second arrow flies through the glassless window as the margrave raises a shield he'd put next to him. He never tried to hide it to John for fear he'd assume it needed hiding, but Margrave Samuel Egbert was a paranoid man, and he hated when he hated that he was right.

He puts on the shield and hugs his son, taking both of them to the carriage floor. They stay like that for what seemed like forever. Really, it's like, a minute, as he hands his son a razor and waits in tense silence.

All John can hear was breathing, his and his father's. But his father hears something else, a moment before he breaks through the carriage door, shield first.

Four of them in a semicircle, suspiciously matching well worn boots, leather covers, and brown rags over their lower faces to pristine black cloaks. Not that John notices. The carriage had been packed so the first thing John would grab was a weapon; in this case, a warhammer that feels right in John's hand as he faces the brigands.

The outer two attack first in unison, troll hunting instincts coming into play. The elder Egbert throws his shield at one, then throws himself at the other, grabbing the troll's spear just beyond the spearhead and pulling him— no, her, closer. He slashes at her throat once, then twice, then lets the spear fall to catch an arrow.

The other troll, a character that does not have a name, does not see the shield coming. It hits him in the legs and he trips. The last thing he sees is dirt as he rises off the ground, right as John slams a hammer into his back with all the force of a dutiful son acting to save his father.

Two more come out of the clearing, armed with bows and knives. Two shots are loosed. One flies past and cuts a bit of hair off a squirrel's tail. The other hits the back of a troll with a slashed throat, held upright as a shield.

They begin speaking in an unknown language, cut off as Egbert senior punches a man several feet away.

John remembers his training as he approaches the fourth assailant, a man with an axe and shield. He can't retreat much without risking rolling several hundred feet down a steep hill, as medieval infrastructural planning wasn't quite so developed compared to those Roman skirts.

He takes a breath and swings. The loud crack isn't his arm, it's the man's shield and forearm breaking from the impact.

The dazed and mildly _(h)_ armless man swings back, an ineffectual swing that John steps back to dodge.

John swings overhead, striking the man on the collarbone. The axe falls to the ground in imitation of its wielder, sans the dislocated bones that snap and tear into things that shouldn't be torn.

John looks up and sees the archers just as an arrow strikes him in the eye.

John Egbert, heir to the march of Lowinade, staggers back several steps until the road ends and his uncoordinated feet find empty air. He falls down and tumbles down the hill, vision rapidly switching from darkness and sunlight.

Someone's screaming as the sunlight slowly dims from the forest overhead. It's a scream that expresses so many things, saying all the things not said.

Or maybe it's the shock setting in, John wonders. He's not sure if that's how shock works, but he closes his eyes, deciding that, for some inexplicable reason totally not lodged in his face, it's not a major concern.

John Egbert wakes up to an unfamiliar ceiling of carved stone. He checks his fingers, wiggles his toes _(and ears, because he can)_ , blinks his eyes.

Wait, eyes?

John brings his hands up and pats his eyes, one at a time. Yes, he definitely has two hands, it'd be worrying if he lost another hand. And two eyes. Close left eye, can still see. Close right eye, can still see.

"DAD!" he yells, the importance of his last memories finally hitting him like a pillow sack of bricks at a slumber party.

"You're awake? Good! We got a lot of things to do." a voice says. Feminine. Too perky for its own good.

John gets up, slumped over with hands on his lap. It's a.... cave? No, it can't be, the ceiling and walls are too smooth. And the pillars are—

John Egbert sits in the middle of a large circle with several sets of stairways leading out of it, each stairway flanked by a pair of pillars. There's also a straight hallway with a walkway looking overhead, the hallway fading into white.

A troll stands in the hallway, thick ram's horns out of a head of straight hair. She wears a red shirt and black pants that run from waist to ankle, held by suspenders and silver buckles. John spends time studying her mask, a stylized skull sans jaw that emphasizes the cheekbones and eye sockets, and the silver collar wrapped around her neck.

"Who are you?" John asks the troll that is supposedly Aradia Megido despite conflicting features.

"Hi! I'm Aradia!" she says, confirming that she is, indeed, an Aries troll, and the author deliberately chose her appearance for a reason.

_(Fuck Damara's in this somewhere isn't she. Well that's gonna go over great innit?)_

"You must have a lot of questions, I know, and we'll get to them, I promise! But first you should eat."

"Where am I?" John asks, not eating first. "What is this place? Where's my father?"

Aradia sighs, shaking her head with a smile, readying to provide an unfathomably boring info dump. "Alright fine. You remember being hit by the arrow, right?"

Aradia looks at John, awaiting an answer.

John stares for a moment, then shakes his head. "Uh, yes! Where— how do I have my eyes back?"

"That's cause you died." she says with a smile.

Aradia continues expositing, our hero too stunned to respond.

"Except you weren't meant to die, not now. So they intervened, and here you are. You have a long journey ahead of you!"

"A buh guh drrrl—" John blinked and sighed. "Not supposed to die?" he said, more coherent.

"Your fate protects you, John. Almost all people are fated to die one day, but for you, that one day is set in stone." she says, gesturing to the stone structure. She stops waggling her eyebrows when John shows no reaction, shakes her head and rolls her eyes, then continues. "You can't die before then, and you can't die in any way other than how you're meant to die."

"But why me?" John _(and every single protagonist ever)_ asks.

She shrugs. "Guess we'll find out!" Wait, we?

John Egbert sits at a table, slowly eating bread and roasted chicken. To be honest, John doesn't get that about him. He'll hear something, but not listen. He's managed to wrap his head around the idea that he's special, sure. If he really is, he's sure he'll live up to it. Death he can understand. His dad is _(is, not was; he's not dead, he absolutely can't be)_ pious. For John, it didn't really... click. He didn't feel what his dad did.

His dad accepted it. He explained to John how nothing was the same since the empire collapsed.

But he doesn't really feel it. Feel the way the room gets bigger and every sensation is new and it overwhelms him until he's frozen there, breaths fast and deep yet not enough of either.

So now he waits, chewing food he can't taste. It'll hit him. Hopefully not while he's chewing.

John studies the troll. His father had started teaching him how to study others. He wanted to demonstrate at the council meeting.

....

_He probably finished fighting, interrogated anyone still alive, extracted one or two lines of info from a dying man right before he expired with a dramatic last gasp, climbed down the hill, searched for him for hours, climbed back up the hill, then hitched a horse and rode to the castle, a man on a mission._

....

No, still not hitting him. Dad would be inconsolable, right? He'd never cried in front of him, but he was a loving father. Shouldn't that get a response from him? That his father must be drowning in sorrow and guilt and shame and a dozen other things that... he can't even be arsed to identify them, can he?

"Excuse me. Aradia?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"I feel different. Less emotional. Is this normal?"

"Yep! Don't worry about it. It's mostly cause you're here and not among the living. You'll start feeling more when we return." she says, chipper as ever.

John thinks there's something wrong in that last line, but he can't bring himself to care, especially now that he knows he literally can't.

John Egbert physically cannot give a fuck right now. Cognitively. Whichever. His field of fucks lies barren.

He looks at Aradia, at her face, then her hips. He wonders what would happen if—

Nope, uh huh, uh yeah sure, nah, let's not think about that now.

John continues eating, slightly pink, hoping she doesn't ask. She does not.

John Egbert stands again in the temple clearing, surrounded by pillars and stone bricks of a color he cannot register. With chicken in his belly and clarity derived from absence of emotion, he registers other phenomena more clearly. He is no longer in his brown tunic, but golden fabric, tailored to fit his body and present him as man of noble blood, covered by armor he can't fathom.

"Aradia? What kind of armor is this?" he asks, pointing at the smooth metal.

"It's plate armor. Beforus is starting to use more of it. This was all we had." she responds, unaware that she isn't aware plate armor was only used towards the end of the medieval times. Or perhaps the author isn't aware of the period of their own fucking story.

John experimentally knocked on it once. Twice. He couldn't see arrows piercing this, though his joints weren't covered. He wouldn't spit up blood while dying of an infected gut, but he could definitely lose an arm.

He bent down on one knee to take out the rest of his armor in a box he could've sworn wasn't there before this line. A sort of skirt to his chest, gauntlets, shoes _(sabatons, Aradia whispered ineffectually)_ , greaves, and a mish mash of parts he couldn't parse.

Aradia explained each piece to him and helped him put it on, like she was a squire herself and him her knight. He tested his steps, ran, did a cartwheel, tripped down the stairs _(nope, still fine!)_ , tested his reach with a warhammer, swords of multiple types he could name but didn't because the author didn't feel like doing the research, fell down the stairs again, asked Aradia to hit him, asked her if her hand was okay and why she didn't use a weapon.

Fell down the stairs again.

Then he took it off, a process that took a good few minutes, put it back in a durable dark green box of some unknown metal, then asked Aradia how to get back to Trapezium, in the Astraean Empire.

"See, about that." Aradia starts, introducing the next twist that would force John to go on a long journey as an errant knight that would end in death, returning home, or finding the Lady of the Lake and becoming a motherfucking Grail Knight that'd probably get wiped out on turn one to the proof of a godless universe that is the Thirteenth Spell those rodent fucking fucknugget fucks.

"While fate was saving your life, it decided to take you closer to where your fate lies." she says, bracing herself for John to freak out.

"Wait, what?" John said, failing to freak the fuck out.

"When we walk out that hallway," she says, pointing to the singular ground level hallway that ends in a white light that barred further vision, we're going to end up in Eosia*. To the west."

"That... that's halfway across the continent." John says, unaware he was unsure if the concept of continents as we know it existed back then.

Aradia smiles sheepishly. Fitting. "Whatever your wyrd has in store for you, it starts with you in Eosia." She lifted the green box with little effort.

John opens his mouth for three seconds before sighing, unable to find the right words. Should've taken the left. "Fine. We have everything?" he asked.

John is suddenly aware of bags on himself and Aradia, from large leather knapsacks in black thread to silver-buttoned pouches on his belt and on straps running from shoulder to hip.

He has a second strap for a warhammer of unknown and possibly impractical design, a thing of blue and yellow with a hammerhead and pick, the strap over a green and silver coat that itself was over a black and white shirt that ran over his silver belt, even when tucked in his black pants.

Aradia has a whip on her left side and a sword on her right, both barely visible under her red and green striped coat.

"We do now," the troll says cheekily.

John plots out his route as he emerged into a forest clearing several hundred feet away from a road. If he was in the Eosian Empire _(must not be native, or at least not consider it the Alternian successor)_ the best route is to a ship to sail around Beforus, land at Skaia, grab another ship from there to Terminus, then make the land trip to Trapezium again.

Whatever small part of him wants to see the world finds itself quashed by an urgent need to return to his father. The guilt of letting his father believe him dead was overwhelming. He has to go back. Send a messenger. Send an omen. Anything, really, he just needs to do something here and—

Aradia puts a hand on his shoulder.

"John. I should mention, when you were whisked away to the temple, there was a beam of light. Your father would've seen it."

"But would he know what it means?!"

She shakes her head. "No. Probably not. But he'd have to know something happened. Humans don't normally explode into light when they die."

She puts her other hand on his other shoulder, looking him in the eye, smiles nowhere to be seen. "Isn't your father a strong man, to raise someone like you?"

"Yeah, but—"

"But what, John? Are you trying to protect him from suffering he's had more of than you? He's a mature man, he'll cope."

John sighs shakily, getting an itchy feeling in his eyes.

"John. Think of how happy he'll be when he sees you again."

John sighs again, less shakily. "So will I."

She smiles. "Good. Let's get going."

The forest reminded John of a phalanx, multitudes of green spearheads on brown shafts laid upon each other as far as he could see. So far, the other half of the continent wasn't much different from his side, save slightly greener, well, greenery.

As the sun dipped some hopefully existing number of degrees towards the horizon, John and Aradia came upon a trade caravan. There were a smattering of humans and trolls in varying clothes of burgher origin, but the majority was made of carapacian, Prospitian traders who found themselves barred from Beforus due to ongoing conflicts. Instead, they traded with others, like Eosia or Astraea. John's father hadn't a mind for money, and neither had John, but they were diligent students.

"Hello?" John asks in broken Liberan*. "Who's the master here?"

A tall carapacian waves and approaches them, bright clothing hanging off his thin frame, a bard's appearance walking as a dignified nobleman.

"Hello!" The carapacian says in fluent Mixolydian*, extending his hand. "I believe you are looking for me? I am Mobius Trip, the leader of this esteemed caravan. And you are?"

Aradia takes the initiative. "I'm Aradia Megido of Loquamel. This is John Egbert of Lowinade."

"Ah. Lowinade is, incredibly far from here. What brings you to these parts, my good human?" he says, leading them to sit at a portable table in front of a large tent of muted colors that stands out from the warm crimson and golden wagons and tents surrounding it.

John looks around for an excuse, pretending to look around. He sees several horses on long ropes nearby, piles of excrement poking above the grass. A troll with eyewear and aprons hunched over paper. A carapacian being swarmed by three giggling children.

"Well, I'm not a knight yet. So I'm wandering these lands. Looking for a chance to prove myself to my lords." John makes up. It's _technically_ true.

"Hmmm..... I can't offer you much, in the way of heroism, I'm afraid. My countrymen _(because countrycarapacians is stupid)_ have... found themselves at odds with Beforus again, and I am no longer welcome there. So I find myself in Eosia, for warmer greetings and, promises of coin."

Mobius sits down at the table, a faded grey table propped up by metal rods under worn corners. John makes out faint patches of ink and wax, understanding that this table has history, and so does this fashionable carapacian sitting at it.

"I don't suppose you know any settlements nearby?" John asks.

The carapacian folds his hands. He has a callus on his middle finger, the mark of scribes. "The kingdom's capitol is a day's travel down the road." He looks at John, feigning confusion. "Are you lost?"

"No!" John says, a bit too emphatically, at the same time as a "Yes!" from Aradia.

John looks at Aradia.

Aradia looks at John.

Mobius looks at John, then Aradia, then John again.

"We're totally lost, John!" Aradia says. "We're supposed to be in Beforus by now!"

John does not need to feign confusion, question marks written all over his dumb face.

"I'm so sorry," Aradia says, turning to face Mobius. "John here claimed he was an expert with maps, then he lost it but claimed he remembered every detail." She glares at John, equally relieved and disappointed that John is an honest soul with absolutely no skill in deception.

Mobius looks at John again, then Aradia, eyes shifting between the two.

"Well. I'm not a stranger to hubris. I believe we, have spare maps we can provide. At a fair cost, of course."

"Uh, right. We could use one of those. And maybe other stuff?" John says, then trails off, unsure why he bothered speaking.

"Right!" Mobius repeats. "We have plenty of goods, trustworthy Prospitian craftsmanship unlike anything you can find here. Let's see what I can interest you in!"

"We're so far from Astraea." John notes later that night, staring at the stars. He could locate every constellation in the sky, a product of many nights wandering the dark, embraced by wind and starlight. Under the windless forest, he finds himself fighting homesickness as he calms himself.

"Fate works however it does." Aradia says, tautologically.

John traces Chiron in the sky, his arrow pointed at Orion's killer*. He finds Erichthonius on his chariot*, imagining him racing across the night sky. John shakes his head, imperceptibly. He needs a ship, not a horse. Maybe just to the Median coastline, from whence he'd sail up into the Tyrian Sea, through the strait to Skaia and the Hospitable Sea beyond it, then to Terminus.

"I don't like the idea."

"It's liberating."

"How is it liberating?"

"Because you and I won't die until our last days. John," Aradia says, turning on her side to look at John. "think of the possibilities. You could wade into a storm of fire and come out alive."

"But crispy." John says, saying the first thing on his mind. He giggles. "How lenient is fate, anyway? I could be an infirm cripple confined to my bed, but I'd be alive. Technically."

Aradia frowns, the effect amplified by her silver mask. "True, but... fate has a reason to keep us alive until our time comes. Whatever we're meant to do, we'll still be able to do it."

"What if we're just meant to watch?"

"So that's why you got your eye back!" she says, her grin indicative of having eaten so much shit.

John turns onto his side, unamused face resting on an arm. "Ha ha."

John looks at Aradia.

Aradia's grin grows bigger.

John's grimace grows wider.

Aradia bites her lip, stifling a laugh.

"I wouldn't worry about it."

They look at each other a bit longer. John wonders what she looks like, under the mask.

"So... where are you from, anyway?"

***  
  


Terezi Pyrope sits at a table in the upper floors of a prominent tavern on a dark street, long after the city's numerous workers and merchants have dragged themselves through another day and gone home to cry themselves to sleep. She feels aches and pains, dull, rhythmic thrumming in her ankles and eyes, wearing dark but clean shirt and skirt tied up with a dirt and blood stained teal girdle.

Sitting to her left is Kanaya Maryam, a troll of a nervous disposition who has been given the dubious honor of being the royal court physician. She wore similar shades as Terezi, considering the two tended to shop together, but with a jade girdle. Terezi made out fading lipstick and highlighter, a long day of work evident in her economy of movement.

Sitting to her right is Bezale Mahara*, proprietor of the Prancing Mountain*, a prominent tavern on a not always dark street that does good business selling drink to apathetic laborers. She had a white apron stained gray from years of stains from alcohol, food, dirt, blood, slurry, whatever the hell she did with it. Her dress was of similar condition, though Terezi assumed that one to be originally green. She had olive eyes, but customarily didn't wear a girdle.

"Well?" Kanaya says, sipping her milk. None of them drank for varied reasons. Kanaya had first-hand experience on the perils of recreational drinking with low tolerance, and the mental scars to show for it, after she'd hit on two priestesses, a troubadour, and a mime, all within an hour. Then the troubadour turned out to be a spy for a Beforan merchant guild, she was caught by another spy from another Beforan merchant guild who didn't think her behavior proper of a performer being hit on by an incoherent Alternian jadeblood.

Then a Prospitian drunkenly revealed his intentions, and things escalated from there until half the gathering was thrown out as the host stood on his roof, tearing his shirt and screaming at the moon. Unfortunately, this also ensured her name was known to the upper crust, a thread that ended with her appointment to the court.

Terezi was a quaestor* in the city of Telvanni*, the seat of power of the Asterian* region and the residence of the Alternian empress-to-be; while her job frequently led her to places of drink and depravity, she abstained to avoid straying from her duty or giving others cause to accuse her of such. That, and she'd seen how alcohol was made, and the process disgusted her.

And Mahara was one of the penemue*, a teacher of the ancient ways, before the rise of the Messiahs of Double Death and the Jadian* Church, before autocephaly and the Precedence Controversy, before the Great Schism. She avoided alcohol outside of rituals and given feasts, though as a purpleblood, she could drink with the best of them, and as a tavern keeper she certainly didn't stop others from doing so.

"The Beforans have found a regent to rule while their heir comes of age." Mahara says. "Hydera Fomala*, some seadweller from Kroak* only knows where. So the emperor left to work out something with the Astraeans to take advantage of it."

Kanaya and Terezi looks into their cups, feigning interest in the glassblower's art as they process the information. The Alternian succession was the perpetual trunkbeast in the room, with no less than three nations all calling themselves the Alternian Empire. By tradition, only a fuchsiablood could sit the Seastone Throne after being crowned at the Porphyry; but exceptions were made, usually at swordpoint. Non-seadwellers, males*, there was that one time an empress had appointed her lusus as her successor...

Hell, there was the case of the Burgundy, one of those stories that conflated myth and history.

Kanaya chuckles to herself, bitter irony in her laugh.

But they'd all been crowned by the ancient rite, a new empress born in the purple blood of the reflecting pool.

"Something funny?" Terezi asks.

Kanaya shakes her head. "Uh, no, no. Just reflecting. So... what do you think will happen? I've heard bad things from the court."

Mahara laughs. "Child, it's the royal court. They have naught to do but gossip and exaggerate. I would take what they say with a grain of salt. Multiple grains, even." she says, waggling a finger.

"But you've probably heard the same thing I have." she continues. "Yes, the seadweller is a mutant. I've heard he's incredibly disciplined. He's never been provoked and he has no quadrants."

Terezi didn't know she was glad to not be drinking at that moment. "Repeat that last bit? It seems you said no quadrants."

"It's true! They say his mutation makes him disfigured. They say his fins are rotted and he can barely walk most days." Mahara said. She leaned in closer.

"They say he can't even swim."

Kanaya chokes on her milk, a muffled, wet noise. She spits and coughs, apologizing for coughing and spitting milk on Terezi, which only makes her cough more that gives way to more apologies and so on and so forth. Terezi wisely holds her tongue, for fear she'd feel guilty and attempt to apologize for that and start coughing up more milk.

"I've heard more of that." Kanaya says, hands folded on table and face flushed. "Cancer of the gills. They no longer function as they should. Deformities of the skin and fins. Judging by his introspective nature I'd add his liver and spleen, not enough blood and yellow bile. He seems to have phlegm, yet he's not immune to a purpleblood's fear as others of his station, nor does he dream. And he feels pain every waking moment, crippling him." Her face returned to its usual color, relaxed by speaking in an area of her expertise.

Terezi whistles, not expecting a Kanaya Maryam infodump right then and there. "How has he lived this long?"

Her tablemates shrug. Their gossiping had uncovered what, but not why.

Terezi makes her rounds about the agora the next day, dressed in a long dress and hat, papers and seal in a pouch slung over one shoulder. She kept her girdle on her at work, which went a long way towards explaining its tattered condition. Assuming the city guard did their duty, every one of these merchants should have a permit from the Eparch to sell their goods, though few kept these permits on their person.

If Terezi suspected one of these hagglers to not have a permit, she had to find a fellow quaestor or city guard, have them watch over the suspected merchant's goods, then accompany the sap to their residence or guild hall so they could present it. The latter never happened; the guilds of Telvanni, like many of the city's institutions since the imperial flight, adopted the habits of their nominal overlords. Every flick of the hand and every word out of their mouth dripped with the arrogant pride of those reveling in their supposed superiority atop their ivory towers.

The guilds were self-contained communities of their own, more like monasteries that sent raving zealots to scream about sin and repentance for an hour before self-flagellating to death than, you know, actual people.

Humans were so weird sometimes.

"And he is DESTINED to bring about the end of days! To trample the nations of the world under steeds of THUNDERING IRON!"

Speaking of raving zealots. She draws her cane, which was actually a sword and scabbard. The scabbard was lengthened, made a cylinder, then stylized until the sword/cane resembled a dragon, the pommel removed and hilt lengthened and curved to resemble a dragon's head. A reward for a task done long ago, it still shone brilliantly in the sunlight; the fruits of one who loved to polish her cane every night.

The raving madman in question was a Kurloz Makara, a Beforan known for public disturbances. The magistrates were, and it stung Terezi to her core every time she thought about it, under orders to not harm the troll, solely because of orders from unknown but high-ranking officials..

He quickly turned out to be a skilled fighter willing to break bones, so the order was changed to not kill him.

Terezi walks down the city street, sword drawn to part the stream of passersby. She's confident Kanaya could patch up... minor cuts.

She only sees the tip of the inciter's horns above the heads of the crowd that gathered around him in the open square, trolls passing by with their heads locked to the crowd and the troll's words. In the shaded corners and alleyways of the square, she sees merchants, children, and concerned citizens, looking at the ongoing farce with crossed arms and disappointment.

"Disperse!" she yells, quaestor's seal in one hand, sword in the other. "Non-religious assemblies are forbidden inside the city!"

The edges of the circle look at her, eyes wide and hands plaintive. She steps closer, the gathered forming a second, smaller circle around her to maintain distance.

Makara wears plain clothing, indistinguishable from any other commoner in the agora with his long robe over pants and sandals. He holds his suspiciously long sleeves out, hands open and intentionally unaggressive.

"Makara."

"Quaestor. Come to hear the sermon?"

She shakes her head dismissively. "I order you to come with me to the ju—"

"No." he says.

She has an idea. She wrapped the seal around her sword arm, then picks up a handful of dirt. The wayward preacher turns his head, then grimaces, realizing what she's planning.

She throws the dirt at him. She would've preferred pocket sand, but sand was coarse, and rough, and irritating, and it got everywhere. It was more of a spray of six or seven chunks of dirt, packed densely over centuries of footsteps. Still, it does its job; Makara sidesteps it with unnatural agility chalked up to purpleblood shenanigans, then draws a long blade that couldn't decide whether to be a knife or sword, and failed to be either. Though, to his credit, all swords are short to her.

Terezi's cane had a long, thin blade suitable for thrusting. Into fleshy guts or ring mail, not the other thing. She has a different cane for that. But the preacher had a way of dodging them, the first time they came to blows. Then she swung in arcs, but his footwork was impeccable. Then she got frustrated chasing him down the market, grabbed a vase, then threw it at his head.

She approaches him, sword and scabbard in hand. He may be taller and stronger, but she has reach.

The circle of onlookers closes back up as they watch the two circle each other, blades drawn and eyes locked. The audience begins making requests.

"Where's the police?!"

"Fuck the police!"

"Popcorn! Five ducats! Wait, what's a ducat? Well, you see, currency is how entities in a society..."

"This is barbaric!"

"This is politics!"

Terezi makes the first move, feinting a thrust to Makara's midsection. He spins to the left, then stabs back. Her blade slides over his on her actual strike, missing his midsection by inches.

He grabs the blade between his arm and side, then kicks her, throwing his boot against her stomach, tip first, then pushing out and away.

She stumbles back several steps, wind knocked out of her. He'd held it flat and no blood had been drawn. She continues circling him, as he did her. This time she'll let him make the first move.

She regrets that decision; he runs at her directly, aware his coldblood physiology can take more than hers. Not that she gets to test it; they both turn to their sides as he lunges for her and she responds in kind. Once again she missed him by inches, but so had he.

The regret hits her as she realizes he's bent and undershot, and his arm lies under hers. He grabs her blade between his arm and side again, and drops his not-sword to grab her hand and twist her arm up.

Terezi can feel something pulled in her wrist, in that eternity-in-an-instant as she understands what he's done, disarming her.

Halfway.

She swings at the back of his knee, then again. He wavers, then grabs her head with his free hand, remembering he's taller and has longer arms.

She dimly notes two things, legislaceratorial training keeping her mind running even now.

One, he's dropped her sword.

Two, he's grabbed her by the ear, like she was a wriggler being dragged to discipline. What the hell?!

She feels the impact she lands on the arm on her head, a solid strike between the radius and carpals.

He draws his arm back, then opts to punch her in the face, knuckles against the side of her eye.

Then he twists his foot around hers.

Sensing her impending intimacy with the ground, she swings underhand between his legs, remembering he's taller and had the higher groin. Not much leverage she can put into the swing, but he lets go of her arm and falls on his knee regardless, bent over on the ground.

She immediately swings the cane into his head. He falls, but catches himself, face inches to the dirt.

She swings again. And again. And with both hands.

Terezi steps back, Makara on the ground and motionless save the small, rhythmic movement of his chest.

She steps around him, picks up her sword, wipes it once on her dress to dust it off, then sheathes it. She wipes her forehead, smoothes out her clothes, then has a devious thought.

She redraws her sword and stabs Makara in the ankle. At his tendons, if she remembers Kanaya's chatter correctly. Then she wipes off her sword again and sheathes it. Again.

She looks up and at the crowd. She can judge who the Beforans and Alternians were in the crowd by checking who looked at her with dread, shock, surprise, really anyone who looked at her with emotion. Those that walk away, starts talking to each other, or yawns are Alternians.

She addresses a Beforan with a wide, exaggerated grimace, as if he'd initially done it in his youth to make stupid faces, then he gradually adopted it as he pupated.

"You there, citizen!"

"Uh buh bum— y-y-yes?"

"Don't just stand there, disperse!"

"Miss Pyrope. We really should stop meeting like this."

"I'm aware, my lady." Terezi says, being looked over by the court physician.

"Were the blows to the head necessary?"

"He is a purpleblood, he will recover."

"I was referring to the display."

Is this human serious? "This was a classic case of Alternian justice being served. I will not apologize for doing my duty."

The lady looks as though she's holding her tongue and leaves the room, letting Terezi know her attempts at telepathy with her non-telepathic mind are finally bearing fruit.

"I understand. I'll leave you be."

After she closes the door behind her, Terezi lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Mainly because it wasn't actually her, but her physician.

"What did you get yourself into now, Terezi?" Kanaya asks. "This bruising is atrocious for a single strike."

"Heh. You should've seen the other guy."

She glares at her as only a motherly character can. "Yes. I have. He will make a full recovery, as much as certain people would prefer that he did not."

"You mean anyone with a nub of common decency in the city?"

"So no one then."

"Nice... So. How bad is it, doc?"

Kanaya sighs. "I wouldn't wear anything exposing your midriff for a week, at least. And your wrist can handle light tasks, but you're staying away from physical confrontations until my say-so. Doctor's orders."

"Aww...." she groans. "Do I have to?"

"If you want to use that hand for the rest of what should be a long life*, then yes. You will."

"Sigh. Yes mother." Were it anyone else, Kanaya would begin passionately speaking about hemospectral stereotypes and the need to break free of them. But Terezi was a friend. One who kindly didn't mention to her that this was the medieval ages and breaking the stereotypes was often done with an army, bloodthirsty audacity that walked the border between insanity and sadism, and being possessed of bigger balls than a bowling alley.

Terezi passed the time like that, obeying Kanaya's orders to raise a knee, or move this, or flex that, or some other simple movement whose hindrance was a sign of significant injury. Outside work, she was a babbling wreck prone to tangents and elucidating on a topic long past necessity.

Here, in her area of expertise, she was like her barber's shears, sharp and deadly and competent. Terezi was incredibly reassured, considering what happened to Kanaya's predecessor.

The last court physician treated a nobleman's visiting son, but his fever spread with incredible speed and the young man died sweating and shitting in his sheets.

A fortnight later, news had come back that his father's hunting party had apparently suffered a hunting accident. His father had several holes in the back of his head, neck, and back, while his companions had cuts on their arms and legs. And then the body was gone when the investigators arrived, reduced to a skeleton by rats.

Chronic rat infestation, they said.

The man's estate had fallen to his brother, his son dead in Telvanni and his daughter left a drooling mess after throwing herself over the castle parapets in despair. The investigators, like any decent Alternian of the legislaceratorial tradition, came to the natural conclusion but had to contend with the brother's ironclad alibi.

Convinced the man was a lying sack of shit, they'd redoubled their efforts and interrogated anyone they could get, which was everyone since Alternian justice did not slack about.

Weeks later, they'd acquired irrefutable evidence, several previously unhelpful witnesses whose memories were restored to them by the intensity of the investigators' pursuit of justice. Sure, some humans who didn't understand Alternian jurisprudence complained they were coerced, but that was a matter for court officials and political philosophers.

With due process handled and proper force authorized, they'd marched into the brother's house and hanged him on the chandelier above his dinner table.

The court physician was said to be in contact with the brother through an intermediary.

The latter had his possessions confiscated by the crown and thrown into the oubliette.

The former had her fingers and horns broken, nose cut off _(redundant, she couldn't smell anyway)_ , and thrown out of the realm, taken to the Asterian-Dersite border.

Terezi really hopes that she won't have to do it again, to one of the few friends she's made outside of work. She still had to remind herself that the law had succeeded; even if she wasn't guilty of conspiracy, she was still guilty of incompetence. Guilty of the latter either way; she hadn't come into any extra money since the son's death and her banishment.

She blamed it on the troll bleeding teal when she'd cut her nose. She didn't expect it, and it'd startled her.

But she has confidence in Kanaya's skills. She's an excellent barber, and of incredible moral fiber at that. She'll survive the court.*

Dave Strider walks in the sand in his mind, regretting his decision to arrive outside the sanctioned bounds of fashionable lateness. Instead, he gets to look over at the lapping waves of the Medium flowing along the Metapont and distant blurs of seagulls, processing uncomfortable truths about himself or the world until someone close to him runs over and begins walking next to him to have a heart to heart about said revelations and provide a quiet moment in an otherwise action-packed movie.

Alas, no one runs to him, any vaguely humanoid figures in the distance, well, at a distance.

Dave walks back to the villa, mind no less clear than when he walked out. But the others are up and maybe they can get on with this meeting. Not that it matters. He doesn't have anywhere to be.

The villa is remarkable but forgettable, just another two-story Beforan building that surrounded an open square like a palisade. It was probably built by some Beforan with more sense than money, with the killing they made killing off the Alternians. Then their money probably dried up, they tried to sell it, couldn't find anyone, then just left, the land or this mortal coil.

Dave was laying low for a while, after a highway robbery in Asteria gone wrong. He was stuck in that loop where he knew thinking about it was, like his life, an exercise in futility, but he couldn't stop trying to make an omelet out of decidedly uneggy rocks. They were grouped up and told to go rob and harass nobles anywhere they could find them, on the road or at home, paid for each with no questions asked on either end. Not even.... fuck, what was his name?

Fuck it. Doesn't matter now. Dave's old boss is dead. He was okay, he guesses. If he were a major douchecanoe, he'd probably have found razorblades under his chin before he didn't find them cause he died in his sleep. But he didn't know who hired them. Or that multiple groups were hired, across all of the Alternian lands. Last he heard, there were still highwaymen and burglars running around in Astraea.

This chick somehow managed to find him, though. He was just another schmuck in the Skaian streets, and a letter found its way to his bed one night, like they just assumed he could read. It was an advantage he liked having in troll-majority lands, that they took one look at his red eyes and threw him in with the burgundy masses. They assumed he couldn't read, and more than once he'd been left alone with compromising and sometimes salacious papers.

He had it pretty good there, he had to admit. His first languages was Dyeusian*, but the Beforans took one look at the bureaucratic cockfest and decided learning Aeolian was easier. Well, Peruhark* too; Bro was insistent he remember his roots, though he couldn't speak it. His own guardian hadn't known, and Dave suspected this inability to speak shit went a long ways back.

So he'd learned to write Aeolian and speak Mixolydian, because the Alternians were diglossian twats like that. Thieves' cant was fine, though, long as he stayed in troll lands. Liberan and Daevan* had their own gibberish cant that Dave didn't see himself needing to learn. Shit, humans didn't make sense to him get carapacian cryptography the fuck outta here like what the everloving balls.

He'd scouted out the place, all he heard was that some foreigner was there, some blond-dyed* troll with a lion pelt. He decided to check the place out, and found himself hailed at the door from the second story window by a troll going through a bad hair day.

Nepeta Leijon was from out east, in the direction of Derse and beyond. She spoke Mixolydian well enough, though she definitely preferred Daevan. She didn't want to talk about her offer until the rest of them had arrived, so they'd chatted about current events. A ten foot woman got crucified a month ago. A three headed goat was born in Bumfuck, Nowhere. Some noble made a law demanding cessation of violence that everyone ignored because it's the medieval ages and not being allowed to kill people for not believing in the same god or because you don't like them is stupid.

Then the others started showing up.

Another human, a tall, olive-skinned dude with a long coat and way too many belts and straps, though credit to him he actually kept things like knives, scrolls, and chains on them. He totally had a Dyeusian accent, so Dave assumed he was from way far out west, in Beforan lands, probably as a mercenary. Muscles like gold bags ready to burst, scars that healed into pretty pink lines, and Nepeta had wandering eyes. He didn't seem to notice, which then put Dave off describing him any further, save that he introduced himself as Jake. Just another oblivious manly man that'd be loyal till the somewhat quick end.

Then a troll, tall and wide-shouldered, hair cut short and dyed blue like her eyes. She had an icon of a sun inked on her throat, a circle with eight rays of alternating size that popped up again on her hands, scabbard, and cleavage. Mixolydian, but Daevan loanwords here and there. Dave started remembering his childhood when she spoke, so she had to be a native, though she'd been out east. She introduced herself as Vriska and asked if this was it.

Then the last one came in right on cue. Another troll, most but not all of her hair tied in a bun. Rustblood, though definitely not from here. Somehow spoke Ionian Alternian though, which was mostly a human dialect, opposed to the commonass Mixolydian Alternian. Dave noticed she was hiding blades and possibly a fucking shovel under that dress. It went to her ankles, she could most definitely strap a spade to her leg. Dave thinks he heard her name was Damara.

Dave stops playing beach walking simulator and snaps back to reality. He'd initially created these simulations as a diversion when he was bored, though he found a use for them when planning his jobs. He'd make a plan with his team, run it through his mind, and look for any loose screws or bad ends. Weirdly enough, the how came before the why. Well, not weird to him. Dave wasn't physically capable of questioning any of it, and he conveniently never told anyone else about his talent.

"Right." Nepeta says, standing at the sole edge of the table bereft of seating. "I've called you all here for a pawsitively ambitious job, one that'll see several dead no matter what."

Jake chuckled. "Truly, you've sold us on this. Let's get to it!" Dave suddenly didn't have as big a problem with Jake anymore.

The lion lady pouted, then continued. "The _Tzaraath*_ is going to be stopping at the Minaret city of Gallus* in five days, at the edge of the Metapawnt. Onboard that ship is a king's hoard in gold and gems and trinkets, stocking up before heading straight for Skaia."

Already she was holding back info, but Dave let her continue.

"The ship is going to be heavily guarded throughout all this. The Minaret League and the Beforan Primarch herself are taking very good care to see that this ship passes through with its guest of honor unscratched, which is the catch; King, or actually formerly King, Hydrus Fomala is onboard, on his way to be Regent."

"Uh, what?" Dave finds himself asking in a voice that isn't entirely his. He turns to see Jake, hand raised and likely the source of the vocal modulation.

"Hell yeah. We'll take the ship, the kingly fuck, the king's whore, everything!" Vriska says. Damara continues sitting patiently, hands folded in her lap.

"You were part of the reason actually, Dave. While the old emperor lay dying, someone in his court realized the Alternians would be taking advantage of it. So several groups of brigands, highwaymen, and scoundrels were found and paid to target the nobility. Cripple them before news got out."

Dave stares at the troll. "So you know who paid me?"

Nepeta winks. "And there's several relics in the ship's hold. Magical items from all over the world, from Ireland to Cathay*." she said, looking at Damara.

"Hmm." Damara says, not able to shut the hell up and let someone else speak.

"Any questions for now?"

Jake speaks up first. "How do you know this?"

Nepeta holds up her pelt, a golden thing Dave thought might actually be real gold and Nepeta was a crazy cat lady. She then takes out a knife and throws it straight into the air, her bare arm held out.

The knife lands point down on her hand, then falls to the floor, tip bent.

Dave, Jake, and Vriska all get out of their seats. "What the fuck?!"

"This pelt is meant to be paired with another item. A set of nails that were stolen by treasure hunters funded by the Minaret League. I want those nails back. Everything else— well, I do want a bit of gold, but the rest you can divide up however you want."

Dave looks at Jake.

Jake looks at Vriska.

Vriska looks at Damara.

Damara looks at Nepeta.

"The plan?" Damara asks.

It became increasingly apparent to Dave that he hadn't been specifically sought out, despite the letter being on his bed _that may or may not have blown in through the window?_ Dave ignored that thought and moved on with his internal monologue.

He'd assumed he'd been recruited for his skills. He was literate, but his real talents lay in his knack for stealth and burglary. Jake brought up at one point he'd been in the Custodes, Vriska and Damara looked foreign so they probably had mystical otherworldly arts that were commonplace in their homelands, everyone kung fu fighting on a daily basis before lunch, dinner, and at midnight for the insomniacs.

No, the plan was a simple smash and grab without the smashing. Maybe later, if he struck it really rich, and not with any of these dudes, even if every one of them were fine as fuck; the ones that didn't look like they could split him in two probably had at least six blades on them at any time. Splitting personal and professional relations were tantamount in his field, hence why he never joined the Custodes like Bro.

Since Gallus was their last stop before Skaia, most or all of the crew would be going to shore, leaving only the marines and the Regent-to-be onboard. After a fair bit of argument, Vriska, Damara, and Jake on one side, somehow you with Nepeta on the other, the plan was made with the assumption that they could not take on two hundred plus royal marines, rob the ship blind, burn it down, burn down half of Gallus in the meanwhile, and get away clean.

_"You can't have any witnesses if there's no one left to witness!" Vriska said, tapping her temple._

They'd swim under the dock, then saw their way into the hold via one of the lower decks. They'd have to deal with some of the marines, but no one was opposed to getting the drop on the marines, one or two at a time. Vriska had confirmed that the _Tzaraath_ was a massive fortress of a ship; she was a ship captain at one point in her life, then changed topic before anyone could ask her how she ended up at an abandoned villa along the Metapont.

They'd break into the central hold and split up. Damara and Nepeta would ensure the rest of the marines didn't come down below deck for a shift change or idle wandering or what have them. Jake, Vriska, and Dave would begin the looting process. Several days before the job, they'd stash a rowboat under the docks. Day of, they'd use it to hold their bags while they took as much as they could.

Once they'd taken as much as the boat could hold, they'd take it to a preordained meeting spot, divvy up their gains right then and there, and go their separate ways before they started eyeing each others' share.

Now that the theoretical plan was made, they started on the actual work. The contingencies.

That part took all of ten minutes and six contingencies with two or three steps before they realized none of them had actually been to the city, or like Jake, not been there long enough to remember anything. He'd stopped by there a few times, but he didn't think he'd need to remember much about it. They decide the planning would be better done at the city.

Dave decides to snap back to the beach, walking up to the abandoned villa for the first time. He feels reasonably confident about going into the lion lady's den, headache notwithstanding. 

"Sooo........ what're y'all gonna do with the money?" Vriska asks, leading the group as they walk down to Gallus, a few hours' travel from the once again abandoned villa.

Good question. What does Dave Strider need with a king's gold?

"Bitches and blow." Damara states.

You exhale through pursed lips. Jake follows suit. Nepeta does too, but forgets to breathe.

"Well." Jake starts. "With a fortune like that I could invest into one of the Minaret trade companies down south, be at the forefront of exploration there. The Custodes weren't what I imagined."

"It's the bodyguard, not the actress approval board. What'd you expect?" Dave asks.

"Anything than what actually happened. Do you have anyone in the Custodes, Dave?"

"I have a guardian in it, yeah. Still there, probably."

"Then you know what we do most of the time."

Sitting around, looking tough, gossiping about who fucked who. Showing up to work optional. "Sit around and look badass."

"That's... well I suppose that's the gist of it, yeah? It was glorified guard duty! Hardly a way to find riches and glory." he says, looking annoyed.

"You any good at ships, man?" Vriska asks.

"Ah hah. You see, I, er, don't know the first thing about ships." he says. "But I could learn quickly, mind you!" he adds, a bit too fast.

Dave's been looking at Jake, several scans of his belts and straps and all its assorted, well, assortments, that always ended with Dave eyeing his jawline. And in studying Jake, he noticed his eyes _(emerald things, like how the hell do you get out of bed, covered in all them bitches?)_ sneaking looks at Vriska when she wasn't looking.

She has him wrapped around his finger and Dave doubts she consciously registers it. He doesn't blame either of them. He may be oblivious _(and probably left a lot of maidens at home crying that senpai wouldn't notice her)_ , but she knows exactly what she has and how to work with it.

It does occur to Dave that he hasn't gotten laid in a long time. There's no way every single person he's met in the last three months is an artist's magnum opus come to life. On the other hand, well, he didn't have his other hand often, it was busy holding a sword. Either one.

"Hmm." Vriska says.

Dave arrives at Gallus as he registers that he still doesn't know what he'd do with the gold. Yeah the city's nice and all, it's docks, warehouses, more warehouses, some houses, and the eponymous minarets for which the city's owners are named, behind a set of walls and guards at the gate.

"Business in the city?" one of them asks as they approach.

"My feet hurt!" Vriska yells.

The guards look at each other.

Dave and Nepeta look at Vriska.

"Good enough." the guard says. "Move along."

Gallus is Skaia, just a lot less people in the streets. Dave doesn't have a lot to say about it.

What? Dave's been around. He's been all over the Medium. You've seen one city, you've seen them all.

"Let's find a place to stay first." Jake suggests.

"Good idea! Then we'll split up and scout out the city, then return by nightfall." Nepeta says.

"Night comes in an hour." Damara notes.

"Two hours after nightfall!"

Dave Strider walks along the Gallus docks, dozens of piers with ships of all shapes and sizes. Unfortunately for the story, ships like that of the Caribbean pirates wouldn't come about until several hundred years after; naval combat was done with ballistae, boarding actions, and fairly rare uses of Greek fire, and like Civilization, they were limited to the coast. Turns out when every ship needs like, a hundred rowers _(mainly free people, mind you; the Greeks and Romans preferred professionals who knew what they were doing)_ , water is always running low and rough seas are a death sentence.

As the first stop along the Metapont into the Tyrian Sea, ships came in and out every day to restock, or offload it. As expected, there were signs everywhere, innocuous scratchings in low and high places written only for those who knew to read them.

The city had a thieves' guild, and some of the piers were under their protection. The ships in those piers had matching signs etched on their figureheads, wooden carvings of trolls with exaggerated features. Often on their bust or between their legs.

Dave shakes his head as he walks along.

What _did_ throw the world-weary Dave Strider, unflappable coolkid, for a loop was signs for neutral ground carved next to the door leading into the port authority tower, a squat square thing of bricks and green banners. Granted, half the time the port authority was in on it, but no one went as far as marking it right into their workplace, there was no point to it.

There was no point to visiting the guild, then. The honor code among troll thieves was to get permission from the guild master of the city before performing a given job. One-offs sometimes went without this permission, but with an implicit agreement that if they failed they would receive no aid, and if they interfered with guild operations they were good as dead. But in this case, there was a chance the guild master would tell the master of the port, smaller chance the two were the same person, and a non-zero chance the guild was on the empire's payroll to ensure no one interfered.

That last one was going to screw up everything, wasn't it?

Fuck.

"Who's this now?" a troll says, lounging on a chaise in the basement of a brothel tucked away in a dead end five blocks away from the port.

"Name's Dave. I'm new here." Dave says, holding his shirt up to his collarbone.

The troll drops his smoking stick, clattering to the wooden floor. Nearby gangsters and actresses begin paying attention.

"The infamous David Strider himself. Damn kid. Didn't think you'd show your face around here again." the troll says, eyes half-lidded but legs tensed. "Remember me?"

"Not really." Dave admits, playing it up. It sucks having a reputation like his in his field; he never needed to use it unless he was so far down the fuckhole he could pick at their teeth like those alligator birds. Doesn't stop him from enjoying it when he can, though.

"Rufioh. The one with the wings. Almost got them torn off cause of you." the troll says, teeth bared.

Dave gazes up, pretending to think about it. "Nah, I got nothing." he says, not comparing him to tearing wings off a butterfly.

"Course you wouldn't." Rufioh says bitterly. "You screwed a lot of pooches that day."

He shrugs. "Maybe I'm a closet furry, who knows. We gonna move onto business?"

Some troll offers Rufioh a drink and his fallen stick. He thanks her, waving off both drink and pipe, then waving off the onlookers. "Nah. Forget it." He lets his arms flop off the chaise, laying down. "It's not half bad here. Not nearly as much money, but way less problems. So whatcha got, man?"

"C'mon man, sit down. We got room." he says, pointing to the chaise separated from his by a nightstand. Dave remains standing, though everyone's turned their attention back to whatever it is they were doing before, in the basement of a brothel tucked away in a dead end five blocks away from the port.

"Heard a bigass ship's coming in. Y'all doin' anything with it?"

"Oh yeah. The _Tzaritza_ or whatever. Nope. Orders from up top. I'm actually gonna be there when it docks."

Dave starts sweating. "Yeah? They paid off everyone?"

Rufioh laughs as he exhales. "Straight from the top. These Minarets, it's not like Skaia."

"Yeah?" Dave says, sitting down. "How so?"

"The master of the port? He's the boss here. Below and above."

"I noticed. He has it scratched in next to his fucking door, like oh that? That's just rats. It's always rats. Food's gone? Rats. Missing gold? Rats. Timmy fell in the well? Rats."

"Ahaha. Yeah man, threw me for a dizzy loop when I came here. I don't actually live here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Rufioh says, triggering the author with the overuse of the word yeah. "Working for the League now. They pay well."

"You prick. You went legit? That's like, triple grade ultra mega double Ds heresy, ain't it?" Dave said, eyes following a conveniently timed troll and her double Ds.

"Yeah. Well." He pauses. "Yeah." God damn it Rufioh I'm gonna kill you off first I swear. "Honor went out when the entire council died or left. The cities do their own thing now."

"Dude." Rufioh says, standing up. "You're an autocephalist."

"Oh fuck right off with that. Autocephaly my ass."

"Fucking someone doesn't make them any less right. But yeah." For fuck's sake. "It's about the money, at the end of the day. Where the money goes, I follow."

"So you're here now."

"Pay's not bad. Uh, not that the Minaret League will ever get you onboard. Too big a risk. No offense."

"They'll be sending death companies after me with what I'm planning. Just round up a few hundred dudes with murder boners and hieromania, put 'em in tin cans, give them my shirt and just let 'em loose."

"So every purpleblood ever."

"Ayyyyy." Both said simultaneously, finger guns pointed at each other.

"But yeah, you're gonna loot the _Tzaaghaagagack_ , aren't you?"

"Why do you think they got the guild onboard?"

The troll whistles, running both hands through his hair, a former mohawk growing back into a more conventional hairstyle, faded red tips a record of when and where it used to be.

"Well, it's my job, so I gotta say it for the record if nothin' else. Uh, I most definitely remember almost skewering you back in Skaia. Like, six times."

Dave shakes his head. "I really don't remember."

"Yeah. You didn't remember last time either. We've met up before, after you, you know, got half of Skaia's higher ups killed."

Wait, what? "Uh, sure. But they got a literal ton of gold onboard. There's no rowers, it's actually being pulled to Skaia by the collective gravitational pull of all the boners they got when they heard that."

"You steal that, they really will send hundreds after you. The League doesn't forgive, not like the old guild."

Rufioh remembers who he's talking to. "Wait, it's you. Yeah never mind, man."

Dave gets up. "Got all I wanted to hear. Guess I'll be seeing you then?"

Dave looks down and sees at least three blades sticking out of his chest.

"No hard feelings man." Rufioh says as Dave collapses.

Dave snaps back to the docks, in front of the squat square thing of bricks and green banners.

John Egbert travels through the Eosian countryside with Aradia Megido, taking in the sights of a land far from his home.

Unfortunately, it'd be far too easy if John just managed to get home within one chapter, so the author brings into play a recurring trope for protagonists; the chronic hero syndrome.

They wake up in an only somewhat cramped room on the second floor of an inn in Erigeneia*, having turned in the night before after a full day's travel. There is no sexual tension whatsoever as John wakes up with Aradia's hand in his face and her drool on his shoulder. John feels slightly uneasy, almost as if two people that met just two days ago shouldn't be this comfortable with each other.

Should they be, John? Think about it. Think about everything. You're a very selectively calm person, aren't you?

John shrugs it off, dismissing it as a slight chill. She took the whole blanket for herself.

Right! Now that they're on the shore, the next step is to find a ship going to Skaia. Shouldn't be too difficult, ships go there all the time. Sadly, the carapacian caravan parted ways the day before, planning to loop around and visit several villages before reaching Erigeneia.

"Aradia! Stop counting sheep, they gotta eat."

"Uh— I'm awake! I'm awake." she says, smacking John in the face.

John steps outside the inn, rubbing at his cheek. There's a commotion a few streets down, near the city square. John naively figures it can't be that serious.

John is an idiot, because of course it's serious. There's a small crowd gathered around a bulletin board in front of one stone and wood building only distinguished from every other stone and wood building by royal heraldry. John assumes, as he walks towards the source of the commotion at a semi-brisk pace. His vexillology _(stop mixing Greek and Latin you fucking heathens)_ didn't cover Eosia in detail. 

John skips a paragraph's worth of describing the city as a cluster of oversized walls that overlap each other, and goes to the bulletin board.

_His Imperious Condescension, the Emperor of the Alternians, has decreed that the wild lusus known as the Lernaean must be put down for the safety of the realm._

_The hydra resides at lake Lerna to the east, three days' journey by foot from Erigeneia. It is not to be underestimated, being a creature of prodigious size, though that alone should not dissuade the sharpened blade. Its bite is known to be incredibly venomous, able to kill a cold-blooded troll within minutes, though the strength of its jaws are mercifully lacking. The hydra has been observed to wrap around its prey, constricting it while its hellish poison kills its victims. Its scales are also razor sharp and dried with the blood of a thousand creatures._

_A bounty of fifty imperial gold ducats is offered to the brave hero who can slay the creature and return with one of its heads. The hero will be celebrated in the upcoming summer festival, and their name made known across the realm._

"So.... you wanna do it?"

"Hell no. Fuck snakes."

"Is it a snake, though? I thought it had claws and a tail and shit."

"It says constrict, moron, of course it's a snake."

"LFM 3 dps and shaman OS 3d rush, 5k min"

"Just cause it constricts doesn't mean it's a snake!"

"What else in the world constricts?"

"Your wife."

"The hell does she constrict?"

"This dickkkk."

"LFM 2 healers vault 25 man"

"OW MY DICK."

John walks into the building behind the board. A troll sits at a wooden desk covered with papers, an emblem of a postal service carved into the front of the desk and into a massive cabinet of dozens of square drawers behind the troll.

"Can I help you?" the troll says, looking up from his papers with a neutral expression.

"Yes hi! I'm looking for more info on the bounty that's been put up front."

The troll holds up a finger, not his middle one. "One minute." He reaches down and John hears the shuffle of drawers and papers.

He takes out a paper. "Ah, right. The hydra has been a known inhabitant of the woods for at least a decade. It started going far from its lake, eating people's cattle. The farmers formed a hunting party, went out to bring it down. Predictably for peasants against a lusus, none of the farmers came back. Then the search party never came back either, so we decided to put out a bounty on it."

"Why not send the knights after it?"

The troll shakes his head, pulling out more papers. "With the Beforans and Prospitians on the verge of war again, the emperor's holding his knights in reserve. Besides, you're a human. Aren't you here to do heroic deeds and such, go back home with gold and glory? Unless you're looking for a knighthood, this'd be a good start."

"I see." John says, hand to his chin. "Welp. I guess that's all I wanted to know. Take care!"

"Yeah, you too. Now, where'd I put today's mail..."

John walks down to the docks, intending to flag down a ship captain, when it hits him.

Exactly what kind of money does he have right now?

Aradia paid for the maps and supplies from the carapacian caravan, along with some trinkets she thought were cute. She paid for the inn. Something tickles in the back of John's mind, like something's not right.

John scratches the back of his head, bemoaning that he has to walk all the way back to the inn so he knows what he has to work with.

"Aradia?" John asks. Aradia lays on the bed with one leg folded over the other, reading a sufficiently eldritch-looking book. John, having never met Rose Lalonde, wouldn't know the criteria for eldritch sufficiency. As usual, he is unaware of this inconsistency.

"Yes, John?"

"How much money do we have?"

"What kind? They take ducats everywhere we'll end up going, but Minaret ships like you better if you pay in florins. And I got dinars and bezants if we need those for whatever reason."

John fails to blank out, knowing the basics of stewardship and how currency works. "Ducats and florins, though honestly I'd rather avoid a Minaret ship if we could."

"Why's that?" Aradia asks.

"I don't like them. My dad's told me stories of what they do."

"Is it a vendetta? Could they recognize you?"

He shakes his head. "No. They actually don't come up where I live. Too far, too windy."

Aradia closes her book with a soft clap. "We'll try local, then!"

"John?" Aradia asks. She and John carry their bags with little effort, neither stopping to rest where lesser trolls would put them down and complain. Alas, one is a protagonist with strong arms and morals, and the other is an otherworldly being in guise and demeanor, gathering looks from passersby for her silvered mask.

"Yes, Aradia?"

"Apparently there's a hydra nearby?"

"Oh yeah, that. How'd you hear about that?"

"I went down for a drink and they were talking about it at the counter. They're offering a reward, John!"

"It's ducats. You said we have ducats, right?"

"Yeah, but think about it. Don't you wanna go out and see the world? Meet new people, kill new things?"

"I just feel like it's a waste of time."

"It's eating cows, John. Those cows are someone's livelihood. That hydra's ruining people's lives, you know."

"I don't appreciate the guilt trip, Aradia." John says, stopping.

Aradia stops as well. "Alright, fine. We won't go kill the hydra. And I'm sorry."

John picks his bag up again. "Apology accepted. Let's go."

John estimates about a score of ships in the harbor.

And absolutely none of them are going anywhere.

"Why's that?" John asks for the ninth time? Eighth? He can't remember.

"Got hired by the empire. Just in case we end up going to war with Prospit." the unnamed and unimportant ship captain says. John's heard this, or variants of this, at least six times. If they're not in port to rest, negotiate a trade agreement, escort some hopped up nobleman's brat, or in one case, sell the ship _(too much, even for Aradia),_ they're all on the empire's paycheck.

"This is bad." John states.

"Worse come to worst, we could buy some horses." Aradia suggests.

He blows at stray locks in his vision. "We might have to."

"You know...." Aradia says in a manner not much different than an idiot trying to convince his friend of an idiot idea, "the lake is on the way down the coast. I assume we wanna check other coastal towns along the way?"

John sighs.

"Only if it's really close. If not, we're not going out of our way for it."

An hour later, John and Aradia are on the road, mounted on nondescript horses that'll be lucky if they live to the end of John's section, the only thing important about the horses being their carrying capacity.

John has Aradia's maps in hand. If they were correct, the journey back to Trapezium was honestly screwy. Right now they were taking the long way, going down the coastline town by town until they found a ship. If they never found a ship and hugged the Medium the entire way, it'd take the better part of a year.

They could head straight for Trapezium through Skaia, if ships somehow became out of the question. They'd still have to take a detour; the horseman was insistent that they avoid the Prospitian-Beforan border until they were sure a thousand Prospitian warriors and their war machines wouldn't burn black scars into Lolightain.

John sighs, shakes his head, and looks into the sky despondently for a chunk of the journey, looking at his options and hating all of them, not quite able to make himself understand that time is a thing.

"They're two different things." John says.

"Huh?"

"You can tell someone all you want that war sucks and they'll probably die of camp fever before ever fighting, but.... that's not the same as seeing someone charging at you with really sharp sticks."

Aradia smiles sympathetically. "Still frustrated?"

"Yep!" John says, throwing his hands in the air.

And the maps with them.

"John! The maps!"

"Oh boy." John says, bringing the horse to heel.

He gets off the saddle and begins picking up the maps, dusting them off and pretending to not hear Aradia giggling.

Later that day, the two of them detour to a small village, the next port too far to cover in a single day.

"Halt!"

Except there's makeshift towers and walls of freshly cut wood, stumps visible in the distance. Trolls stand with quivers and bows atop the towers, torches not yet lit under the falling sun.

"Hello?" John says. "What's all this?"

"You ain't from here, so I'll make it short!" a troll says, a generic troll with generic blood and generic appearance. "They say a reanimated herd's around these parts and we do _not_ plan to be zombie food!"

"So then, we should be let in, right? Two less zombies for the horde?" John says.

The two trolls atop the tower whisper to each other. Fair odds one string of words uttered was _he has a point, y'know_.

"Alright, fine!" the guard says, helping continue what will be a running gag. "You can come in. Hey! Open the door!"

"Can you fight?" The other guard asks.

John looks at Aradia.

Aradia nods at John.

"If they come, we'll answer!" John declares, heroic intent clear in his words.

John and Aradia walked through a small door built into the wall, the town realizing a giant gate to match the walls was a waste of wood, man(troll)power, and how the hell would hinges even work with that anyway?

"You think we'll have to fight?" John asks.

Aradia looks up, thinking. "Maybe. I don't know. Reanimated aren't like us. Different power."

"If not fate, then what?"

She shrugs. "Maybe necromancers. I've never met one." she says, giving the author a thought about how to introduce Jade into the story.

Rose Lalonde sat opposite a weary, familiar troll, one set of fingers drumming grooves into one of many ancient tables in one of many parlor rooms within the Telvanni palace. She wore a chryselephantine robe, sash and girdle black with imperial purple trim, the precious tyrian dye an indication of her royal appointment.

The troll, very familiar to the audience but far less so to Rose, drank a cup of tea, arms and legs wrapped in bright cloth. He wore an exaggerated codpiece, silver and shiny in the falling sun.

"He makes her the sword and he stabs her with it." Gamzee said, looking nonplussed.

"She was merely doing her job as a legal official." Rose said.

"How's a sister gonna do him like that?"

Rose raised one eyebrow, not the first time and most certainly not the last time she had done so, her go-to sidearm in her panoply of subtlety. "He does have his eccentricities."

"Everyone has them. It's part of our charm." he said, winking half-heartedly, validating Rose's decision to sit with him. The bard was an excellent ally in any court, one of the few able to speak freely without reproach.

And he had a coquettish face, pretty to look at. It was hard, pretending to be bisexual to fit in as a human in a troll court. Well, less hard as time went on, the mask she wore had to be somewhat part of her now.

"They call him a demagogue, you know. A firebrand and a soothsayer." Rose said, not quite agreeable to the labels.

"Soothsaying? Kurloz is preparing." Gamzee said offhandedly.

Gamzee's eyes widen. Rose noticed.

Rose looked at him in that practiced way, where she simultaneously looks as though she didn't hear yet she totally heard and you better fucking tell her right now what just happened god damn it you fucking clown jackass.

Gamzee looked at Rose.

"Y'know."

Gamzee sighed.

"I've never been good at holding my tongue." Gamzee said.

"How much time do you have?" He asked Rose.

Rose Lalonde's section ends here, several years before John's section at the very beginning of the story. She has a mask to play like everyone else, but hers is different.

Dave Strider does the Slav squat under the canopy of some tavern in Chicken City, flanked on either side by Nepeta, and unfortunately, Vriska. The author can't be arsed to remember what Dave wore in the first part, went back and looked through, gave up halfway through, and instead assumes it wasn't said what he wore.

So now Dave wears a plain shirt and pants, but with a red girdle because Bro didn't raise no uncivilized child. Nepeta always kept her pelt on her, head surprisingly detachable like a hood ( _wait so how does she keep that thing on? tape?_ ), with men's clothing cut to size to fit her frame, sleeves dangling freely far from her hands. Vriska had a jacket instead, though the less said about her flimsy excuse for a shirt, the better.

"You got something for us, cat girl?" Vriska asks.

Nepeta looks at her, eyes narrowed and mouth curled down on one side. "Dave."

Dave sighs. "Right. Everyone in town worth one corn flake is either hands off or making sure the ship passes through clean. Including the master of the port."

Vriska whistles. "Great."

"So are the priests of the city." Nepeta says. "They have the same markings as the port tower and other places of bad nature."

_She knows thieves' cant?_ "You said the big cheese herself wants this thing in safely. We might have to fight the entire city." Dave snaps forward.

"Eh. I can take them." Vriska says.

Dave snaps back. She's fast. "Maybe." But not that fast. "Been asking around. The port authority's in charge here, white and black." He looks around, making sure no one's listening. He whispers anyway. "If they're really keeping things locked down, they'll have maps. Patrol routes and all that."

"And if they don't?" Nepeta asks.

"Then it'll be simple enough that we can sneak through or pick them off." Dave says. He snaps forward again.

Dave snaps back.

"I've done deals with Minaret before." Vriska says. "They will. They keep everything on record."

"Yeah?" Dave shifts on his feet. He squats for the irony, not comfort. "You work with them before?"

She smirks. "What, you think I'm here for looks alone?"

Dave suppresses the urge to gag, but not for the same reason as the audience.

"Then we should stop by the tower. See what we can pick up."

"That'll be you and Damara then." Nepeta says.

Dave gets up and stretches his legs. "We got two days, assuming the Medium doesn't toss them against a rock. Where is she, anyway?"

Dave snaps forward. Goddammit Damara.

Dave waits for Damara outside a brothel tucked away in a dead end five blocks away from the port. She comes out with a smile that fades as she notices him.

Dave looks at Damara.

Damara looks at Dave.

This running gag is only two chapters in _(what chapters, you just posted all this as one thing!)_ and it's already old.

"Got something." Dave says, motioning for her to follow. She follows, but continues not speaking. Dave wonders if he's ever seen her blink.

They walk into an open space, one not quite big enough to be an open market but not small enough to be another intersection of streets of uncertain nomenclature. _(Were the smallest streets named back then as today?)_

"Right. The port authority tower." Dave says, distant enough from passersby. "We're gonna check them for papers. Patrol routes, big names, that sorta stuff."

"Ok." she says. "Tonight?"

Dave looks back at her out of the corner of his eyes, not making the effort to fully turn his head. "Yeah. The blue haired chick, she can tell us more."

They keep walking back to the inn, a place that the author does not name because it is literally too much effort to bring up the fucking D&D player's handbook you fucking lazy prick just whip it out already. _(Dick jokes aside, the last inn to be named was also the tarot readings of its innkeeper. There's no symbolism needed here.)_

"Rufioh won't be bothering us anymore."

Dave snaps back to a brothel tucked away in a dead end five blocks away from the port. She comes out with a smile that fades as she notices him.

Dave looks at Damara.

Damara looks at Dave.

"How long till they find out?" Dave asks.

Years later, watching people be fish-eyed at what he knows never gets old.

"Months. Not a conventional method, but it leaves me untraceable."

Dave blinks profusely instead of mirroring her reaction. "Oh. Welp."

They walk back to the nameless inn, Damara following behind Dave.

"I doubt you'd know me." Damara says. "Not the same circles."

The pieces of a puzzle Dave's withheld from the audience clicks together. "You were there?"

"Settled most of my rivalries during it. Then I slipped the leash. It's fun."

Dave nods. "It's... ok. I guess."

"Right!" Vriska starts. "Something I learned about Minaret, they love their paperwork. They record everything. Everything they do, they have maps and labels and all sorts of boring shit. They'll have patrol routes and lists of people up in the tower, always on the second highest floor."

Dave and Damara look at her and nod, walking across town. Problem with cities was eyes and ears everywhere. Dave suspected Rufioh suspected Damara was up to something. This was another misdirection for her; when they robbed the ship, he and everyone else would assume she visited him for that, and no one would suspect her when he died.

Dave took another sweep over the passersby. Yeah, they had a tail, but not close enough to overhear.

"Those pointy mushroom things, whatever they're called.* They're pretty sturdy. Throw up some rope, jump in. They keep the bedrooms in the basement, so you should be good to go."

"You assume they're identical." Damara says.

"They are." Vriska waves, dismissively. "I've seen a few others down south. They're all the same. Minaret has a fetish for uniformity. Carapacians, am I right?"

Dave snorts.

"Anyway... I asked Jake to get some rope discreetly, make him useful for something." she said. Jake's the most straightforward of them, Dave notes. He's not sneaky or devious, but he's observant and used to be Custodes. _Unless he got the boot and lied about it_.

Not a thought Dave wants right now. Doubting his partners in crime leads to paranoia, and making sure he's not a fall guy is par for course. He snaps forward.

Dave Strider stands atop a poorly lit rooftop next to one Damara Megido. According to Vriska, the tip of the mushroom-looking top of the tower is sturdy. Damara ties the rope into a loop.

Dave makes a remark about her being good at tying knots.

Damara gives him eyes that don't belong outside, then throws the rope. The audience is pretty sure people can't actually throw ropes that far. They should realize that not only is the current viewpoint Dave, Dave snaps back to walking across the city.

It begins with the white rider.

And what makes you think, Terezi Pyrope, that I'm babbling? That I am a false martyr? I've witnessed the ten thousand horses of the iron khan myself, tealblood. When the Devourer, Equius Zahhak, comes for us, it will be the beginning of the end. The end of a path my brother and I started so many years ago. I will see his tyranny ended.

Sophia hangs from the tree, bound and strangled, the light devoured by the darkness.

One life for another. If she will not be the Rider, it will be you.

She was laid back, arms tied to the railing and cloth leashed around her neck.

I am Louisa Ferre de Avernus, Patriarch of Beforus. I am the one you call Scratch.

Why the hell did I name the city Gallus for chicken?

Vriska can read, she just doesn't show her cards unless she's playing them.

Damara killed Rufioh while Dave was waiting for her outside the brothel. She was one of the beneficiaries of the clusterfuck Dave caused in Skaia. She's targeting old thieves' guild higher ups since they're rivals.

Just a warning, shipping is... finicky here. Can't say why cause spoilers, but I wouldn't expect much. Or even people meeting each other at all. For one, all the Beta kids are there, but I doubt they'll ever group up. I could see at most John and Jade meeting up. Not sure Karkat will ever even meet Dave.

Oh, and a good deal of them will die. John technically counts since he dies in the very first chapter. They won't die until after they've been introduced, done stuff, made an impact in the story. If they're minor and won't make waves, well, I'll just OCs that I'll literally introduce as OCs existing to fill in the bit roles. Go big _(and probably die)_ or go home _(and probably die anyway)._

*Astraeus, in Greek mythology, is the titan of the dusk. And also the father of the four Anemoi, which are wind deities, to fit with John. Though Astraea is also a deity in her own right, the former's daughter and one more fitting for Terezi.

*Eos is the titan of the dawn and the above titan's mate. Hilariously, in my mind, the former is to the east and the latter the west.

*Libera is a Roman _(pre-Hellenization, I assume)_ deity that got identified as Prosp _(_ _i_ t)erina, which was the Romans' version of Persephone, though you may know it better from the Rape of Prosperina, which I'm told was a popular subject for Renaissance artsy people.

*Mixolydian mode is a music thing; I don't know, I'm musically self-taught my technical knowledge doesn't go far. Chose this one for reasons that'll only make sense if you connect strings that haven't been given yet.

*Sagittarius and Scorpio. Not sure if foreshadowing or not, arrow to the _(knee)_ heart is too quick.

*Auriga, except that's the Latin name. If he were Beforan, then yeah.

*The Maharal is the rabbi that created the Golem to defend the Jews in Prague. As a plot device, she serves as a fairly large bullet in my Chekov's gun, so don't expect much from this OC besides infodumping until shit kicks off.

*D&D dude, remember? 5e DM handbook, use 5 and 15. Anyone that knows tarot cards, the 5 is upright, 15 is reversed, both apply specifically to her. Thing I like about OCs is that you don't have to fret over keeping them in character. And I don't feel bad for sadistically killing them off.

*Both quaestor and quaesitor are titles, but the former is eight letters long per troll nomenclature _(that is the word, right? Correct me if it's something else like some -nymy thing)_ , while the latter is a position that mostly matches what Terezi actually does in her job.

*House Telvanni is one of the Great Houses of the Dunmer, one of the races of the Elder Scrolls universe _(you may know it from SKYRIM BELONGS TO THE NORDS)_. This is tangentially relevant to Homestuck because the troll alphabet was a flipped Daedric alphabet. Major Asterian cities will be named after Great Houses, minor towns and whatnot I'll gargle mouthwash and write down whatever noise I make.

*Asteria, same titan motif, name is literally "of the stars." If you get confused, that's intentional.

*Penemue, in the Book of Enoch in Jewish mythology _(continuing that theme here. Actually know a lot of Jewish, Greek, and Gnostic lore because of Homestuck; the etymology behind the names got me hooked, then I read that essay about HS as a Gnostic work, then I fell down the rabbit hole, nary a LifeAlert in sight.)_ , is a watcher associated with literacy and book reading and curing man of their stupidity and such.

*Deneb Algedi is derived from the Arabic term for "tail of the goat," their name for Delta Capricorni, a star in Capricornus.

*Formalhaut, also known as Alpha Piscis Austrinis, the brightest star in the constellation Piscis Austrinus. It's also the third brightest _(to us)_ star with planets. Why do I mention this? Second brightest is Pollux. Get fucked, fishboy, nerds rule.

*Kroak, since the Genesis Frog is a thing. Warhammer Fantasy reference, and the frog in question is certainly strong enough to qualify as a god.

*Think I remember somewhere saying that only female trolls can get fuchsia blood. Remember, you're dealing with medieval Europe-like conditions, tradition is a big deal. 

*AHAHAHAHAHAHA

*Oh, you're being serious. Let me laugh even harder. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

*Dyeus Pater, sky-father in... really old language. Like, from Dyeus//Deva we have Deus _(Latin)_ , Zeus _(Greek)_ , Ju-Piter _(Roman)_ , Dievas _(Baltic)_ , Daeva _(Avestan)_.

*Amalgamation of Perun _(Slavic god of thunder and lightning, very very frightening Galileo wasn't born yet)_ and Germanic futhark runes.

*Daevas are, if I got this right, Zoroastrian deities with negative connotations. Fitting for Derse, I think.

*Blond hair is just a referential joke to Nepeta's name. Names like Megido or Zahhak have clear linguistic roots. Apparently Leijon was just some senator's name, though Leijon is close to Lejonet, which is Swedish for lion. That implies every Swede is blonde, but I realized every troll has black hair by default, so I wanted some color, and blonde was the first thing that came to me.

*Tzaraath is, exaggerated, a Hebrew word for skin conditions so bad you need a priest, a Torah, and divine intervention. And probably a sacrifice that goes from cows for the rich down to fucking pigeons for poor people, a pair of them I think? Haven't had a reason to read Leviticus since 5th grade.

*Gallus gallus domesticus, the sciency name for the first thing that comes up when I look up chicken. Why chicken? I'll be honest, I must've been off my rocker when I wrote that, because I had to look through my notes for why, and the reference fucking sucks.

*Crusader Kings reference again. _May you be sewn up in the belly of a dead camel. Marriage proposal's good fam just fuck them up._

*Eos Erigeneia, a title used to describe the eponymous goddess in the Odyssey.

*LMAO.

*Jamshid was one of the kings of the Pishdadian dynasty, who are said to be the first line of Persian rulers in Iranian mythology.

*Hotokhoshians were one of the groups _(Iran's neighbors with India. Caste system?)_ that Jamshid made. You had the priests, warriors, farmers, and stuff-makers. The Hotokhoshians were the last one, making stuff. Yeah, Jamshid was the same old _I'm so good now I'm better than God oh shit the fuck I fucked up_ story you see everywhere else.

*The blacksmith Kaveh, alongside Fereydun, was one of the dudes who rose up against Zahhak in the _Shahnameh_. Supposedly, he lost seventeen of his eighteen sons to Zahhak's snake zombies, but something else I read says only two sons. Went with seventeen. Judging by the heaping piles of fanfiction evidence, trolls fuck and breed a lot. Like, A LOT.

*The Derafsh Kavani is a royal standard of Iran used by the Sasanids until the unstoppable tide of Islam. Kaveh is a pretty cool dude over there, a freedom and liberty and rebellion and all that jazz figure.


End file.
